


The Very Secret MI6 Massage Parlour

by cucumber_of_doom



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alec ships it, M/M, Misunderstandings, So Much Snark, various Q-branch OC's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 01:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11370030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cucumber_of_doom/pseuds/cucumber_of_doom
Summary: Q has no time for 007, who has taken to hanging around his branch and being generally annoying, when he has to investigate what is hopefully not a sex-cult surrounding agent 006. It has nothing to do with him having a crush on Bond or the fact that he is bad at acting on his feelings. Really.





	The Very Secret MI6 Massage Parlour

**Author's Note:**

> Still not the promised "Meeting Mrs Bond" sequel, but here we are.

Q was tired. 

Tired and angry at 007 for keeping him at work until 3am, only to drop his com into some puddle in Bangkok. Which had left Q with just enough time to get home, sleep for 3 hours, feed his cats and head back to work to try and make sense of what the remaining night shift – the actual night shift he hadn't been officially part of – managed to dig up. 

There had not been much to find, not with how good Bond was at slipping any form of surveillance if he choose to, but at least there was a good chance of him not being dead. It had to count for something as far as this particular agent was concerned. 

Still, after sifting through grainy security footage for the past hour, Q needed to properly wake up in order to make it through the day ahead and tea wouldn't cut it today. He was in the mood to set something on fire and unrestricted access to firearm and explosive prototypes was a perk of his position he was going to take take advantage off. Nothing like playing with fire to sharpen the mind, Q thought and made his way through the corridors.

He knew something was up the moment he spotted 006 inside the explosives test range, using the same prototype flamethrower Q had wanted to try himself. Setting things on fire would not only wake him up but also immensely improve his mood, he was certain of that. 

“What the hell?” he asked eloquently, pushing his glasses up his nose. If the agent had snuck in without permission, Q would kick him out, trained killer or not. He pulled his tablet from his messenger bag and opened the spread-sheet for booked range-use.

The result was dissatisfying: Trevelyan was indeed scheduled for the next 30 minutes. Q scrolled back and found him properly written in on the previous two days, all greenlighted by the same Q-branch employee. Joan Ripley, one of his new hires. The young woman was competent and reliable, so it was unlikely to have happened by accident. 

“Very well, agent. Go on,” Q muttered to the agent behind the soundproof window, put the tablet away and retraced his steps towards Q-branch's main floor. He'd gladly rip the flamethrower from Trevelyan's fingers if it turned out to have gotten their by extortion. Making double-oh's apologize was almost as satisfying as setting things on fire from a distance and no-one messed with his staff.

He walked back to the bullpen and immediately spotted the woman's short, purple hair at her usual desk. Tanner had tried to make a comment on some of his new hires looks, but Q had told him that he didn't pick his staff for their fashion choices and since outsiders weren't permitted in Q branch anyway, he wouldn't start. There hadn't been any complains about sticking to a dresscode since then.

Q made a quick detour to the break room where he made himself a fresh cup of tea and, sipping on it, made his way to Joan's cluttered desk. Standing behind her, he cleared his throat.

“Joan, whatever agent Trevelyan has on you, I promise not to fire you unless it is too illegal. You are a great programmer and I would hate to let you go. The quicker you tell me what happened, the sooner I can start making his life hell,” he said, hoping for the conversation to be over quickly.

Joan turned in her chair, one pierced eyebrow raised in question.

“Excuse me?”

Q lowered his voice and came closer in order to minimize the risk of someone listening in. Maybe they should continue in his office where they would be undisturbed, but his need for a reason to kick Trevelyan out of the range was stronger.

“You gave him time on the explosives range three days in a row, Joan. No agent deserves three days in a row and I know you know that as well as anyone. Has he threatened you? Is it blackmail?” he asked and - to his astonishment - saw Joan blush. Damn agents.

He lowered his voice even farther, now wishing for the possibility of having a door to close behind them to not further embarrass her.

“We don't have to talk about it here, but please know that I have your back. You really shouldn't let the agents bully you. They can smell fear and will take advantage, especially the double-oh's,” he said, urging her to tell him whatever the agent had on her.

Instead of answering right away Joan fiddled with a string of brightly coloured paperclips lying on the desk in front of her.

“It may have been unprofessional but Trevelyan did not blackmail me, so you don't have to ruin his credit or whatever you planned. He gives extremely good back rubs?” she tried – sounding uncharacteristically shy - and Q let out a sigh. Not blackmail then, but not _nothing_ either.

“I really don't want to know. Just try to keep it professional in the future. This blatant favoritism won't do.”

“Sorry, boss. I'll be more careful.”

“Please be. I'd hate having to write you up.”

 

*

 

Q watched Trevelyan exit the break room carrying a small stack of various Tupperware containers from a safe distance.

What had started with a simple workplace affair a few weeks ago had spiraled into something else altogether and Q was determined to figure out what the hell was going on with this department. 

While Joan hadn’t given Trevelyan more undeserved range-time, the double-oh kept lingering and leaving with more than he had come in with. Yesterday it had been a hand-knit scarf, today it was what appeared to be enough food for at least a day, if not more. How many people was Trevelyan sleeping with and how would it affect work once everyone found out they weren’t the only one? This needed to stop before the situation developed into a disaster of epic proportion.

The break room was not empty. Sitting at the small, wooden table, blissed out expression on his face and - for some reason - smelling strongly of cinnamon, sat Malik Hallak, one of the older branch members.

Thinking about it, it was a combination Q had noticed more and more over the last few weeks – a blissed out expression and the smell of cinnamon. He'd thought it to be some kind of new floor wax until he remembered how no one would ever get the budget for nice smelling cleaning supplies from their government employer.

Q squared his shoulders, already knowing he didn’t want to have the conversation ahead.

“Did you let 006 steal someones lunch?” he asked. Malik looked up from his bagel.

“He didn't steal it, I made him some and Tara told him he could grab one of the cupcakes she brought. There are still some left if you want one,” he said, gesturing towards a half empty plate on the counter behind him. Q eyed the cupcakes, then looked back at Malik, who had returned his attention towards his lunch.

“Is that a thing we do now? Feeding the agents?”

“I enjoy cooking, someone gets to eat it and I don’t have to throw anything out. Everyone wins.”

“A lot of people have been awfully friendly to 006 lately. A lot more friendly than to other agents. I wonder why that might be.”

Malik flinched and lowered his bagel onto the plate in front of him.

“Sorry, sir. Agent Trevelyan is really good with his hands.”

Q quickly held up a hand to stop the other man from over-sharing.

“Please spare me the details.”

Malik looked puzzled for a moment, then chuckled.

“Don't look that scandalized, Q, I am happily married. If anyone is taking off their pants in 006’s presence it’s their own business. Sit down and listen, you have the situation all wrong.”

Q sat down across from Malik, curious. That the older man looked as amused as he did was a good sign. Malik was exceptional at his job and Q had come to respect him quickly.

“So tell me what I got wrong, Malik. Because I really hope this is not what I think it is. It would save me some awkward one-on-one-talks.”

“Do you remember that time 006 went undercover on Bali last year? His cover was a massage therapist at the targets favourite luxury resort. He had to get really good at it to be hired, even trained with a professional for several weeks prior to the assignment. He has been using that new skill to gain favours, nothing else.”

Q let the new information sink in. While still weird, this was much better than the alternative.

“Good to know,” Q deadpanned, then raked a hand through his hair. Not as bad as he thought, but still far from following the rules. “So, trading massages for food. And maybe for time on the range too?”

Malik shrugged. 

“Maybe, but we tried not to do that anymore since you told Joan to stop. You are right: it's unfair towards the other agents.”

“At least isn't some kind of weird, department wide sex thing,” Q said. He grabbed one of the cupcakes from the counter – red velvet with cream cheese toping – and turned to Malik, who took another bite from his bagel, chewed and looked at Q.

“You thought it more likely for everyone in the department to have sex with 006?” he asked.

“You _have_ met the double-oh's before, have you?” Q countered around a mouthful of frosting. He deserved the sugar. He deserved all the sugar.

“Yes, I did. Which is why I will tell you something. Please bear with me pulling the age card this once,” Malik said, putting the remains of the bagel down onto it’s crinkled wrapper. Q gestured for him to go on.

“You are a remarkable Q, but I have been working in Q branch for about as long as you have been alive and have seen what agents - especially double-oh's - can and will get up to when they are forced to stay in the country for too long. 006 trading massages for food because he is a lazy bastard who hates cooking? Completely harmless.”

“While I can’t argue with that, I don’t like to be left in the dark about my department taking bribes. This is a possibility I should have been briefed about when taking the job, not discovering it on my own and having to make assumptions. Thought I know it was a chaotic time and there were more pressing matters than what a bunch of bored agents might choose to do with their free time, I would still have appreciated a proper briefing at some point.”

“That is true,” Malik said with a sigh, then added after a pause: “Do you want it to stop? It won’t make you popular, but people will respect a decision like that. Mostly, at least.”

Q thought a moment, then shook his head.

“No, let everyone have their fun as long as doesn’t start to interfere with work. It is not as if the agents will stop trying and their ability to make people want to do what they tell them is why we pay them.”

He popped the last bite of cupcake into his mouth and stood.

“Time to get back to work,” Q said, nodded towards Malik and left the man to finish eating in peace. At least there was one thing less to worry about.

 

*

 

Despite keeping an eye on the Trevelyan situation, Q didn’t find any more reasons to complain. And if someone came back from their lunch break smelling of cinnamon and being unusually loose limbed? No harm done. 

Q might have even been happy about having a semi-trained massage therapist on call, hadn’t it been for 007. Freshly returned from an oversea assignment - and what Q assumed to be a week long bender - the agent had retaken to hanging around Q-branch whenever he wasn’t spending his time in the gym or at the shooting range. 

Q found him lurking just out of his line of sight at the most inconvenient of times. Like when M paid a visit or that time he tried to figure out what the hell had happened to bend the supposedly unbendable muzzle of 003’s gun. He could have compared it to the one 007 had used on his assignment, if only the agent had bothered to bring it back. Not that he ever did.

Q barely managed to keep himself from turning his head, while the agent’s presence made the back of his neck tingle. Stupid, bored agents hanging out at the edge of his vision. Bloody distracting.

It still took him burning his fingers on the soldering iron to to put an end to it.

“You are a safety hazard, Bond. Get out of here!” he demanded, the smell of burned skin sharp and unpleasant in his nostrils. To his astonishment the agent did retreat without argument, leaving Q to go find the first aid kit and put a plaster onto the reddened skin.

Concentrating was easier after that and Q finished his project in a little more than an hour, which left him with enough time for a short tea break before sending someone to start harassing the junior agents into filing their after-action reports on time. Better to instill good habits early in their careers before they could take the double-oh section as an example.

It was in the hallway - leading to the break room - that he found Bond again, leaning against the wall like he hadn’t been kicked out.

“Don’t you have a home or why do you keep pestering me?” Q sniped while walking past the loitering agent.

“I am observing,” Bond said and Q stopped, eyes narrowing.

“Observing what? The dietary habits of basement dwelling government employees? Go home.”

“Alec walked off with a brownie,” Bond went on, gaze fixed on the half open break room door like he was waiting for a target to emerge. Q wouldn’t be surprised if he was.

“Looks like he shared. You missed a crumb,” he said dryly, pointing at Bond’s left sleeve. Bond looked down, then smirked when he found the cuff spotless. Having the other fall for a cheap trick like that felt oddly satisfying.

“That’s a dirty trick. Someone’s been having a bad influence on you,” he mused, still looking way too smug for Q’s liking. Like he was enjoying this. Q straightened his back.

“Well, not you. Now go. Everyone in this department is free to feed whoever they want, even if it’s meddling agents who didn’t do anything to deserve a treat. With which I am referring to you. Out with you.”

Bond nodded slowly, the hint of a pleased smirk still in place.

“See you tomorrow, Q,” he said before walking off towards the elevator. 

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” Q called after him. He turned to walk back to his desk, then stopped and – cursing himself – turned again and went to fetch his tea. Distracting bastard almost made him forget to take his break.

 

*

 

Bond went on a short trip to Madrid the following week, leaving Q blissfully undisturbed for two glorious days. Of course things blew up on day three. Literally.

One moment he was talking to Bond on the com after the agent had met with his contact, USB-drive securely tucked into his pocket, the next Q heard an explosion, followed by static over the com line.

“007, what’s happening? Do you copy? 007!”

The only thing he got was silence. Static, nerve wracking silence of the worst kind. The one meaning he had lost contact with an agent in the field. The shock lasted for about a second before professionalism kicked in. Q knew how to handle situations like this, no matter how cold his insides went at the though of Bond dead. 

“Shit.”

First thing he did was check Bond’s tracker. Finding it still active and moving helped calm down his rapid heartbeat. As long as the man was still alive, there was chance for him to get out. Bond always came back, in the end. Had to.

Q turned in his chair, barking out orders.

“Joan! See if you can get me a visual on 007. Tara! News reports, anything on the situation in Madrid. More explosions, stolen buses; when anything out of the ordinary happens, I want to know if it’s 007.”

He turned back to his workstation, fingers flying across the keyboard as he accessed their databases, hoping to find personnel in the area to assemble an extraction team in case they would need one. One never knew with Bond. He was in for a long night.

 

*

 

It was early morning by the time they found Bond, injured but alive, calling from a pay phone just outside of Toledo. Through some kind of miracle he was still in possession of the USB drive. Q arranged for him to get back to HQ as quickly as possible, finding a to get him on.

Q groaned as he stood up, back cramping from too many hours at his desk. He tried straightening up, frustrated when it wouldn't crack as he had hoped. He must have looked pathetic, he thought, when one of his night staff came over to him. Peter? Percy? Something like that. He could not remember right now.

“You know what you need, boss? A massage to get all those kinks worked out of your back before you go home. I’ve seen Trevelyan lurk in the doorway earlier. I can fetch him if you want,” Maybe-Peter offered. It sounded too good to pass on, no matter his stance on enabling the agent's new hobby.

“Fine, fine, whatever. I give up. Just get him, I can bury what's left of my dignity later,” Q said through clenched teeth, trying again in vain to get his back to pop. This was Bond's fault. He would not be in pain if the man had not kept him up all night. And in a few hours he would need to come back to work already, running on nothing but caffeine and too little sleep. A massage, even from an only half-trained, bored agent sounded heavenly.

He flinched when Trevelyan stepped out of seemingly nowhere.

“Finally, Q, you gave in,” he exclaimed, grinning widely and opening his arms invitingly. It made Q want to punch him in the face, preferably while wearing brass-knuckles. 

“Don't mock my pain, 006,” he said, his stiff neck preventing him from cocking his head. “That I changed my mind doesn't mean I am going to beg you.”

“No need for that, I always like to help.”

“No, you don't. Now get going.”

Thankfully Trevelyan did not argue with that and led the wincing quartermaster down the main corridor and into a smaller off to the side behind the gun range. They stepped through the door of what Q always had thought to be yet another storage room.

He had no idea how a professional, padded massage table had found it's way into Q-branch and decided not to ask. Some things where better left a mystery.

“I heard you thought I have a harem,” Alec said while walking over to a closet to get a fresh towel and spread it over the table. Q watched him from the door, trying in vain to find a comfortable position.

“Don't flatter yourself, Trevelyan. My first thought was blackmail.”

“You are hurting my feelings, Q. I’d never need blackmail to assemble a harem.”

“That would require for you to have feelings. Which I doubt. Only a heartless bastard would return his rifle in the condition you did last time. You are almost as bad as Bond in that regard,” Q said, slowly walking over to the padded table. No one could accuse his agents of not being resourceful, but he hoped to never having to explain the existence of this room to M.

“That sounds like a challenge,” Trevelyan said. Q pulled a face.

“Please don’t; one of you stalking me is enough. Now do whatever it is you do to have Tara make cupcakes for you.”

Trevelyan shrugged.

“Get out of your clothes then and hop on the table,” he said, fiddling with a row of bottles in the cupboard. “And don't you know that stalking is a sign of affection?”

“Stalking is a sign of being a creep,” Q mumbled, too tired to let modesty get in the way. He mechanically stripped down until he stood in nothing but his briefs, his clothes thrown in a heap on the rickety camping chair next to the door. His glasses went on top. He almost tripped over his own feed on his way over to the table, then laid face down onto it, his face settling in the cradle. The patent leather felt cold, but warmed quickly enough against his skin.

“If you are not getting started any time soon, I am going home so I can catch a few hours of sleep before I have to be back at work.”

“You are supposed to relax, so calm the fuck down, Q. Relax. I've got this.”

The smell of cinnamon hit Q's nose and moments later he finally felt Trevelyan's slick hands touch his shoulders, tensing up automatically. Slowly, gradually, he relaxed again as Trevelyan spread the oil down his back, then went back up to his shoulders and started to slowly work his way down his spine. Q let out a groan.

“It has been way too long since I had a massage,” Q mumbled, eyes slowly closing. “That feels _really_ good.”

“Don't you have a girlfriend who can do that for you at home? Boyfriend? Platonic fuckbuddy of ambiguous gender?” Trevelyan asked without stopping his hands. Stupid prying agents.

“I don't pay you to comment on my love life,” Q said dismissively.

“You don't pay me at all,” Trevelyan reminded him and Q gave a half hearted shrug.

“You are receiving some sort of reward for providing a service. That's payment according to me.”

“And what would that payment look like? Don't tell me _you_ are planning on blackmailing _me_ now.”

Q snorted. What a prick.

“I wouldn't dare. You can't blackmail someone who doesn't give a damn,” he said. Trevelyan answered by pressing down on an especially tight spot on his lower back and Q groaned. “That's the spot.”

“Got it.”

Not that having Trevelyan work on his muscles did not hurt in it's own way, but it was a good kind of pain. Q felt himself relax more and more, slowly drifting off into sleep as the agent went on. Bond was on his way to safety, he could allow himself to close his eyes for a few moments.

 

*

 

Q woke up feelings disoriented but relaxed. Vision blurry from his glasses missing he took in his surroundings. He was laying on a soft, padded surface underneath a fuzzy blanket, so he probably hadn’t gotten himself kidnapped, which was a nice starting point. He sat up groggily, startling when he found himself wearing nothing but his briefs when the blanket fell away. What…?

He’d asked Trevelyan for that stupid massage and fell asleep. Great. Now he had to ride the tube home while still groggy. At least the worst of morning traffic would be over, but he still would have preferred to sleep in his own bed instead of some padded table of dubious origin.

Q struggled off the table, flinching as his bare feet hit the cool linoleum floor. The lights where dimmed and he was still missing his glasses, but now that he was a little bit more awake he recognized the room Trevelyan had led him to. Trevelyan, who was nowhere to be seen, probably home or off bothering someone else, which was more than fine with Q. He fumbled for his glasses and – once it sat securely on his nose once again – got dressed. Fishing his phone out of his pocket told him he had been asleep for more than five hours; long enough to feel better, but not a full nights sleep either. He would take a look at how things progressed in his branch, but decided to go home and get some more sleep if nothing urgent had come up in the meantime. After tying his shoes he quickly ran a hand through his hair to give it some resemblance of order. It would have to do.

Stepping out into the hallway, he managed to dodge any attempts at conversation initiated by the morning staff, because he completely deserved to take the day off after spending the night, as long as no new emergency arose. It better didn’t.

After informing R about taking the day off to catch up on sleep, he made a quick detour into his office to grab his coat and messenger bag. He did not bother turning on the light inside, only taking a minute to gather his things before he walked back out, running straight into whoever was waiting in front of it.

Cursing he grabbed the strap of his bag tighter to keep it from slipping to the floor, his hand freezing once his sluggish brain pieced together the available information. Broad chest, smell of gun smoke, dried blood and antiseptic.

“Bloody hell, you look like death, Bond,” he said, his brain-to-mouth-filter temporarily disabled with lack of sleep. “Did you come right from the airport?”

Bond looked like Q felt; wrung out and barely standing. Q could only guess why he made the effort to come to Q-branch instead of lying down on the nearest semi flat surface to take a well earned nap.

Whatever Bond had come to say, it was not what left his mouth.

“I came to return my equipment,” he said, eyes too tight for his words to be anything but a tired phrase.

Q raised an eyebrow. He was too tired to deal with any of this, really. All he wanted was to sleep in an actual bed until the world made sense again, not deal with moody agents; no matter how glad he was to see said agent more or less unharmed and back on British soil. One had to have priorities.

“Since when do you bring back equipment intact enough to be returned?” he asked anyway, but softened his expression after taking in the beat up man in front of him for another moment. “You need to go see medical, that's what you are going to do. And leave your equipment with R, I’m heading home, after staying up way too late to save MI6 from having to pay the damages you would have caused by blasting your own way out of that basement. You’re welcome.”

Q then turned and walked off, not turning back, but feeling Bond’s gaze burning into his back.

 

*

 

Q didn’t notice right away, but once he did, it hit him surprisingly hard: Bond’s daily visits to his branch had stopped. No lurking presence just out of his sight, no annoying questions at the worst of times. Backing off was nothing like Bond at all. It made the back of his neck itch, where he had gotten used to feel Bond’s eyes rest. It was unsettling.

A quick look at the active missions told him Bond ha not been sent out of the country without him noticing. No, he was in London and logging in time at the MI6 pool and shooting range each day. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for his absence in the bunkers. Q chewed his lower lip, thinking. It was not like he had not told Bond to leave him alone on more than one occasion, but he had also been under the impression that the agent had been aware of the halfheartedness of the comment. He had not imagined the flirting constant flirting, so it had to be something he said or did during their last meeting. Q could not think of anything out of the ordinary he had said that day.

Frowning, he looked back at his monitor. Bond would get over whatever had upset him within a couple of days, it could not have been too bad. The man was not exactly known for being easily offended, but stubborn to a fault. Q could do stubborn too.

 

*

 

Maybe things would have gone on like this for a while. Q being stubborn. Bond being stubborn. They both had what it took to last for a while. 

Luckily, Trevelyan – who still lurked around the bunkers whenever he needed food or got bored - was less patient.

About a week after his discovery of the persistent lack of one particular loitering agent, Q left the break room with Joan at his side, talking about her newest idea for a pet project and how they could present it to get the necessary funding. Things were relatively quiet in the tunnels today, with the day crew having left and the night shift being smaller than usual due to a low number of active missions in need of supervision. A perfect opportunity for taking an evening off to compensate for overtime. Q should have been more suspicious.

Distracted by the thought of having to milk some additional money out of M for the new project, Q did not pay proper attention to which turns they took. Everything that followed was a blur – figuratively and literally, because someone’s elbow knocked Q’s glasses off his nose. There was shoving, a whole lot of cursing and his back collided first with what felt like a very sharp edged metal cabinet and then some other person.

“’the hell?” Q cursed, disoriented, grabbing the unknown suit-jacket for balance.

“I am not letting you out until you two made up!” Q heard Trevelyan’s muffled voice before he manged to set his glasses, which had luckily managed to hang on to a single ear, back onto his nose. A bit bent, but still usable for the moment. 

Once the world came back into focus Q went rigid. The person he had been leaning against was Bond. A very angry, strangely calm Bond and he reflexively took a step back – only to collide with the cabinet again. Cursing he inched forward again as far as he could before walking nose first into Bond.

“Damn it, Trevelyan!” Q hit the door - the only effect being that his hand hurt. Damn safety doors. Shaking out his aching hand, he fished his phone from his pocket, only to discover, that he could not get a signal, despite him having outfitted the bunkers with everything necessary to prevent exactly that.

“Damn it! The bastard is using a signal yammer!” he cursed, stuffing the phone back into his slacks. The yammer was most likely Joan’s idea. Smart woman, if personally inconvenient in this case. Banging his elbow against the cabinet once more, Q gritted his teeth. 

Bond looked way too amused, arched a blond eyebrow and took off his jacket. After folding it into an empty space in the storage shelf, he rolled up his shirtsleeves.

“Step back, Q.”

Q bit back a snort. It would be terribly impolite, given their predicament.

“Are you trying to be funny, Bond? Because I assure you there is nothing funny about this situation,” he said, but flattened himself against anyway. He watched Bond eye the door, take half a step back and then throw his shoulder against it. Nothing happened, except for a loud bang, followed by a string of curses. 

“He did wedge something against the door, didn’t he?” Q asked dryly, giving up on politeness after all. At least Bond did not look like he wanted to murder him anymore. Only like he wanted to murder Trevelyan, but the man was more than capable of defending himself.

“Yes,” Bond said through gritted teeth, straightening his sleeves. 

While Bond kept trying to force open the door without success, Q made himself as comfortable in his little corner as possible, which didn’t mean much. He did manage to found a more or less comfortable position with his shoulder wedged into the corner where the wall and the metal cabinet met, which at least gave him a good view of the agent throwing himself against an unmoving door from different angles. Not that any of his tries made the door open.

This went on for a good while, thought Bond slowed down his attacks and stopped after a while, sweaty and undoubtedly bruised underneath his bespoke suit.

“They will have to let us out at some point,” Q said without much enthusiasm while cleaning his glasses with a cloth. It was a good excuse to avoid eye-contact.

Bond looked at him with an unreadable expression, then reached past Q to open one of the cabinet doors. Q put his glasses back on.

“You underestimate Alec’s patience,” he said, revealing a shelf filled with granola bars, water bottles, wet wipes and a little basket filled with condoms and single-use lube satchels. Q was unable to decide which made him more uncomfortable: those or the pale green bucket in the shelf below. This supply closet was set up to hold them for at least a day or two. Not that he was willing to share any of those thoughts with the audience.

“ _You_ underestimate my staff. We look out for each other, Trevelyan’s bribes will only work up to a point. Sooner or later someone will let us out. Hopefully before either of us has to use the bucket,” Q said, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Bond examined him for a long moment, succeeding in making Q’s skin tingle with the sudden awareness of how close they were standing in the cramped space of the closet. Q could feel the heat radiating off his body.

The silence stretched for several minutes, long enough for Q to let some of the tension in his shoulders go and inspect the supplies in the cabinet more closely. The lemon drops were a nice touch.

“So… bribes?” Bond finally asked, breaking the tension. “What is Alec bribing your staff with?”

“Massages. Sitting crouched over a desk all day is bad for your back,” Q explained, then paused. He groaned when realization hit him. “So that is what all of this has been about? You thought Trevelyan had build himself a harem in my department? Or that he and I were a thing?” The answering silence was confirmation enough. Q let out a sigh. “I am sure that would be bad for morale in the department at this point. Just to make things clear: I am not interested in him. At all. Also I am sure Joan is trying to work up the courage to ask him on a date. I would not want to get in the way of that.”

What followed was another long, uncomfortable silence.

“I may have misread the situation,” Bond admitted at last. Q pushed his crooked glasses up once more, mostly to give his hands something other to do than pull his own hair in desperation. Torn between wanting to throttle the man and pointedly ignoring the vague glimmer of hope growing somewhere in the pit of his stomach, he took a deep breath, tasting like dust and linoleum-polish.

“Which got us locked up in here. Good job. I am sure there are some jokes about coming out of the closet just waiting to be made,” he said. Bond considered his words for a moment.

“Is there any coming out of the closet needing to be done for you?”

“You are the spy, you tell me,” Q replied defensively, daring Bond to get to the point.

“It is surprisingly hard finding any kind of personal information on you, quartermaster. Especially from your staff, they don’t like to tattle, at least not on you. Nothing about dates, friends, even hobbies. Almost as if you have no life outside of MI6.”

Q didn’t reply directly, internally screaming at himself for being a socially inept idiot.

“Trevelyan was weirdly interested in my dating habits too, last week,” he said instead, then paused. “Bastard was trying to set us up,” Q cursed, suddenly mortified. Trevelyan had not been subtle and yet Q had completely missed the point, too tired and distracted to notice.

“As I said: I misread the situation. And now here we are.”

Q looked up, meeting Bond’s eyes. There was a spark in them that had not been there moments before.

Q crossed his arms, again.

“We are not shagging in a supply closet, Bond,” he said firmly, making Bond raise his eyebrows.

“Not before we reach first name basis, at least, and I would much prefer to take you on a date, first,” Bond said, now finally back to his usual, confident self. The awkward part was over, Q hoped.

“My name is classified,” he shot back, hoping it would not become an issue. Names, he had learned, were important, as was the intimidatingly thick stack of documents he had had to sign, first when joining MI6 and then again when taking on the mantle of Q. He wasn’t sure how many laws he would break by revealing his old identity to even a coworker.

“Fortunately, mine is not,” Bond offered instead of making a fuss about Q’s unwillingness to provide his name. He had always been Q to the other man, after all. Maybe it would not become a problem. 

Q leaned back against the wall more comfortably and took his time to observe the man in front of him. It felt different from following his pixelated form on security feeds or having him at the edge of his vision. It was welcome, wanted even and made Q’s stomach flip in the most annoyingly enjoyable way. He let his posture relax a little.

“I don’t like seafood, if you are still in need of information about my personal preferences, James,” he said, trying for the kind of easy banter they were used to. It seemed to have the desired effect.

James’ lips twitched in what might have been the beginnings of a triumphant smile. Not exactly smug, but close. Scratch that. He looked extremely smug.

“Noted. How about I pick you up at eight tomorrow? Cases of national emergency exempt.”

“That is acceptable,” Q said, trying and failing to fight down a smile of his own.

James loosened his tie, clearly more relaxed then earlier. It was a good look on him.

“How long do you think we have to wait to be let out?” he asked.

“Not too long if my fears are true,” Q said with suspicious look towards the supplies stacked on top of the highest shelf. He took a deep breath and spoke, louder than was comfortable in the cramped room: “Joan! You can stop playing along now and let us out, you’ve got what you wanted.”

James gave him a curious look and Q explained:

“If there is one thing I have learned over the last few weeks, beside you being prone to assumptions, it is to never underestimate how clever Ms Ripley will reach her goals.”

Not five minutes later, there was the sound of something heavy being dragged in the corridor, followed by the sound of a key turning in the lock and finally the door opened. Blinded by the bright, fluorescent light for a moment, Q didn’t see immediately who had decided to let them out.

“Just for the record: Joan isn’t the only clever one here,” Trevelyan said. Q glared in the mans general direction before his eyes adjusted and he properly stared him down.

“My apologies. Now get out of my sight before I decide to cancel all your credit cards for meddling in my private life. Now,” he said and stepped in frond of James and out of the door.

Trevelyan drew breath to make a no doubt snarky remark, but thankfully Ripley – who Q hadn’t noticed before - elbowed him in the side.

“Of course, boss. Have a nice evening,” she said – trying and failing to hide a triumphant grin - and pulled Trevelyan away.

Q watched Trevelyan and Ripley leave, his arm slung around her shoulder, both snickering.

“Tomorrow is still a date?” James asked once they were alone and he had joined Q in the empty hallway. Q turned around, eyebrows raised.

“You bet your arse it is. Now out with you too, I am tired. Pick me up tomorrow. I’m, looking forward to it, but now I need to get home and get more than five hours of sleep for once. You should do the same.”

Bond smirked, then took Q’s hand, lifted it up and pressed his lips to the back of it.

“With pleasure,” he answered, letting go of the hand and leaving behind a flustered quartermaster, who turned around and went to fetch his coat, muttering about annoyingly attractive assholes all the way to his office.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to see me rambling about writing and a lot of random blogging, visit my [tumblr](http://cucumber-of-doom.tumblr.com/) because that's where the cool kids are.


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